Ostpolitik
by lithugraph
Summary: In 1972, East and West Germany signed the Basic Treaty, agreeing to recognize each other as sovereign states for the first time. For Gilbert and Ludwig, however, the road to reconciliation is far from done.


It was winter in Berlin. And if it was winter in Berlin – more specifically _East_ Berlin – that meant it was fucking cold. And grey. Not a winter kind of grey either. The kind of grey made greyer by bloc housing and cheap suits and little grey mole men in little grey coats.

Red eyes flicked to the window in between failed attempts to tie a fucking tie for the aforementioned cheap suit. It wouldn't snow today. It was the kind of day that threatened snow. The kind of day that made East Berlin businessmen casually ask "Hey, think it'll snow?" as they rode the lift because, really, what else _could_ they talk about? But it wouldn't snow. It would stubbornly hold out. Hell, it didn't _need_ to snow. There was already enough grey slush on his city's grey pavement.

Gilbert let out a sigh that was somewhere between irritated and nostalgic. He was East, now. He had been for nearly thirty years, yet the nickname still sounded strange on his tongue and strange in his ears – like the bark of a general's orders, except _he_ used to be the general. Although, he supposed, it was better than his official title of _Deutsche Demokratische Republik_ , or DDR. It was too long and clumsy to really be a proper name, and he never did care much for acronyms. Russia had an acronym, but no one dared call him by it except maybe government officials. He was still "Russia" to the rest of the world. And if Russia was still Russia, why couldn't he still be Prussia?

Gilbert grumbled as another knot fell apart. Really, he didn't care _what_ the other nations called him. It did not matter. The only thing that mattered, after today, was for _one_ nation in particular to see him as a fucking equal again. He was not a satellite state. He was a fucking country. He was not Russia's buffer zone or the new favorite. He was a fucking country! Now if only he could get this goddamn knot straight...

The loud clearing of a throat made Gilbert jump, his eyes flicking to the door in a panic. Surely it was not time, yet. He wasn't even close to being ready. He could not face his brother, or his government, looking a wreck...

But it was only Russia.

The large nation sat by the window in the relatively small office Gilbert's government had allotted them for today. It was odd, Gilbert thought, being in an office that was not his. He was not supposed to work here. The filing cabinets, the desk, the chairs were all part of the show. Like West would really want a tour, he scoffed. He missed his desk at the Ministry. It was familiar – an odd comfort in a place so many feared. He allowed himself a grin at the irony of it.

Russia cleared his throat again. Gilbert wondered if that was a not so subtle hint to hurry the fuck up, but a quick glance told him Russia seemed wholly unconcerned with the time, his nose buried in a newspaper.

Russia wore his reading glasses. Not many nations knew he needed them. But Gilbert did, of course. The rectangular wire frames sat perched on Russia's nose, almost pinching it shut, making him draw long, whistling breaths over something he read. A cup of tea cooled on the windowsill.

Gilbert's eyes flicked briefly to the man who had brought him to this before refocusing his efforts at tying a tie.

"I fucking hate this."

Russia made no comment, bringing his teacup to his lips as Gilbert struggled with the knot.

"Didn't you hear me?" he demanded. "I said I fucking hate this."

"I heard you," Russia sighed. He set his cup down and stood.

"I've always been shit at this sorta thing," Gilbert continued to mutter. "Can't even tie a fucking tie right."

His hand shook as he undid the knot for what must have been the eleventh time.

"This whole thing is West's forte. Not mine." He yanked the tie from around his collar with a hiss of polyester.

"Gilbert," Russia said, laying his hands on Gilbert's shoulders. Russia never would call him by his nickname, preferring instead to use their human names – to save confusion, he would say – although Gilbert heard the word "Vostok" purred once or twice, followed by a rare grin, from the usually down-turned mouth.

Gilbert's shoulders slackened. He turned to face Russia, holding up the offending length of fabric.

"There is no need to be so nervous," Russia said, fixing the tie once more around the shirt collar.

"Who said I was nervous?" Gilbert balked. "I'm not fucking nervous! I just hate suits. I'm not a fucking suit person, all right?"

"Would you rather your brother see you in your uniform?" Russia asked in a voice that was not unkind.

Gilbert's gaze dropped to the side. An unbidden image of the uniform he once wore, emblazoned with that jagged symbol his brother once adored, surfaced in his mind. He remembered the nation he was then, and wondered if he was so different now in spite of Russia's pretty words about progress. He remembered his brother once said the same things. And he remembered he once believed it.

"I didn't think so," Russia said.

"You could have gotten me an _army_ uniform, at least," Gilbert muttered.

"But you're not in the army any more."

"So? West doesn't have to know. Be better than this piece of shit suit – ow!"

Russia had flicked Gilbert's ear.

"What was that for?"

"You whine too much," Russia said. "It's only for a day. Tomorrow you'll be back at the Ministry, I promise. But as your country's representative, you ought to be there today. Herr Kohl requested it."

"Meaning all I get to do is stand there while they sign this fucking treaty and shake hands and smile for the cameras and do whatever the fuck else it is politicians do nowadays."

"It's symbolic," Russia said, an edge to his voice as his patience waned.

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Symbolic," he scoffed. "It only took _him_ nearly a quarter of a century to recognize me as a fucking equal again."

Russia frowned slightly as he fussed over the final adjustments to Gilbert's tie. "What his government dictates does not necessarily equate to what he feels. We are nothing if not still human. You of all people should know this." Something flickered briefly in Russia's eyes. A tiredness. A heaviness. It was a look Gilbert had seen before. It disappeared just as quickly as it came, the inscrutable mask firmly replaced. Yet for a moment Gilbert wondered if Russia was referring to himself. "I thought you'd want to see your brother again."

Gilbert shrugged. "Yeah...maybe. Fuck, I don't know! Things between us have been...complicated."

"They often are," Russia said. He helped Gilbert into his suit jacket before going over the whole thing with a lint brush.

"There now," Russia said once he had finished. "You look ready to do business."

"Thanks," Gilbert said. He turned to the mirror for one last look. His hands immediately started fidgeting with the cuffs, as they always did whenever he first put on a button up shirt. Though he would never admit it aloud, he missed the days of ruffled shirts. They at least never felt as restrictive.

Gilbert pulled at the fabric around his wrists, hoping he could loosen the cuffs a bit. Russia smacked his hand. Gilbert shot him a narrow eyed glare before snapping his arms to his sides and straightening his back to get a good look at himself.

The suit fit well enough. If he had any criticism to make of it, it would probably be that the suit was perhaps a bit boxy. But, he supposed, that was to be expected, given his thin frame and fact polyester never laid right anyway.

Russia tapped his wristwatch, reminding Gilbert it was time to go.

Gilbert sucked in a chest of air and buttoned the coat. "I still fucking hate this," he muttered.

.

.

.

As he had expected, he was not wanted for the more technical aspects. His leaders had stopped seeking his advice decades ago, around the time Bismarck came to power. It was no different in this modern era. He was not a diplomat. He was not Austria. Spinning pretty words to the appeasement of both sides was never in his nature. He was there as a representative of the people. A show of goodwill.

So was Germany.

They waited out in the hall, shut away from the proceedings as members of both parties reviewed the terms before putting a final pen to paper.

The hard wood bench had long past exceeded the point of comfortable as the minutes ticked away. Gilbert shifted and fidgeted in his seat to keep his legs from going numb – and to sneak a glance over at his brother.

Germany's usually rigid posture had slunk within a few minutes. He rested his elbows on his knees, his torso pitched forward, and hands clasped in a ball. Every so often, Gilbert thought he saw the tall blonde wring his hands, a look of irritation on his face, as he glared at the closed door.

Neither spoke.

Gilbert finally managed to settle himself, leaning back against the wall, arms folded with a petulant glare that eventually became more of a dazed stupor as the time wore on.

The kettledrum reverberation of Germany clearing his throat startled Gilbert out of his daze. He turned, looked at his brother, but Germany's gaze was fixed on his hands, though Gilbert thought he caught a chip of blue peering over at him.

Deciding it was no more than a trick of the light, Gilbert rested his head against the wall, eyelids slipping half shut with the weight of boredom. With each successive blink, they seemed to become heavier, and Gilbert was quite tempted to take a brief nap – God knows he _could_ do with a rest...

Germany cleared his throat again, the sound bouncing around the empty hall. Gilbert's eyes snapped open. He gave up any hope of sleep, choosing instead to direct a piercing glare at Germany.

"Sorry," Germany said, angling his head ever so slightly, a bit of blue peeking over his shoulder.

Gilbert shrugged, about to return to his leaning, when Germany spoke again: "...So...how are – things?"

Gilbert pushed himself out of his slouch, arms still folded. "...Eh, you know. Things are – are things. They're okay."

Another wring of the hands as Germany nodded at the floor.

"How...how are you?" Gilbert ventured.

Germany's turn to shrug. "...Good. I guess."

"That's good."

Another nod.

Somewhere down the hall, a door opened. Germany eagerly picked his head up, even though it wasn't the one they waited on. A secretary toddled awkwardly by, giving Gilbert the slightest of smiles before carrying on pretending to be busy with her work. Her shoes beat a hollow echo against the polished floor before being swallowed up by another door.

The silence around them again grew thick.

Gilbert crossed and uncrossed his ankles, suddenly wishing he had a cigarette, but he knew how his brother felt about that habit and refrained from reaching into his coat pocket.

A gnawing discomfort settled in the hall, with Germany alternating between twisting his hands and checking his watch and Gilbert compulsively clenching his jaw, willing the door to open.

"So, um..." Gilbert began, no longer able to tolerate the tension, "do – do you still live in, uh, Berlin?"

Germany picked his head up again, giving Gilbert a look the other couldn't quite place.

"Yes," he said, after a pause. "The house wasn't – you know, damaged too much after..."

Gilbert looked down, nodding. "...I just – well, I was wondering. 'Cause your capital is different now, right?"

"Yes."

"Where is it again?" Gilbert asked, though he knew the answer.

"Bonn," Germany said, humoring him.

"Ah. Bonn. That's right."

"I think Adenauer picked it just because he didn't want to move," Germany said with a small chuckle.

"Right," Gilbert said with a half smile.

"...And because, well, it – it didn't get as damaged..." Germany's jaw clenched. He wrung his hands again, giving the floor a thorough study.

Gilbert nodded, thinking about his own half of Berlin.

"They gave me a flat," Germany continued. "In Bonn. Adenauer insisted, even though I refused to leave Berlin. It's not terribly big. I only use it when they need me to come to Bonn for a big meeting."

Gilbert nodded, wondering what Germany's idea of "not terribly big" meant. He thought of his own small apartment near the top floor of a tower block in Treptow. Decorated in the height of East German fashion – utilitarian furniture, the picture of the latest beloved leader hanging over the sofa, wiretaps in the phone and light sockets, kitschy wallpaper hiding more wires. And of course, he had his own little grey man waiting for him dutifully on the street corner opposite every morning. Every chancellor, Honecker especially, never seemed to trust him, despite what he did for them. Probably something to do with the fact he wasn't truly a human. He was a personification, a symbol, something that could not be directly categorized. At least a dozen Stasi operatives lived in the building, their mole faces pretending to be absorbed in their newspapers whenever he met them on the lift – as if he hadn't trained every single one of them.

The prickle of irritation he felt earlier in his "office" crept back in. An itch, at the base of his brain stem. One that could not be scratched.

He found himself scrutinizing his brother's suit. The sleek cut, the fine wool. Probably Brioni or Prada or some other fucking expensive Italian name. Probably a gift from Italy. Gilbert found himself hating it more than perhaps necessary.

"I, um, w-was wondering if...you know, if you ever get some free time...maybe you could come visit?"

Germany's stumbling, stuttering speech snapped Gilbert's attention away from the wool suit. Red eyes locked onto startling blue.

Germany's gaze dropped to his still clasped hands. "...I-I know they probably keep you busy..." A furtive glance up. Hopeful.

Gilbert's whole body seemed to sigh. "Yes. A-and I'd love to, West, believe me. But...y'know with things the way they are..."

Another wring of the hands followed by a tightened jaw.

Down the hall, another door opened and closed. A young man shuffled by this time, an envelope clutched to his chest. Some ministry aide, Gilbert noted. The man was about to nod a greeting but seemed to think better of it when his eyes spotted Germany. He regarded the blonde with a look one might give to something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of one's shoe. He passed swiftly, nose stuck high in the air.

The echoing bang of a door shutting drifted to them through the thin air. The hall belonged to them once more.

"So this is how things are going to be?" A whisper. One that hid fire. "Nothing's going to change? Between us, I mean?"

Gilbert folded his arms, suddenly defensive. He studied his brother. The list of blame grew weighty on his tongue. He had longed – _longed –_ countless sleepless nights to call up Germany and hash it out once and for all. He dreamt of the things he would say, what his brother would say, and fell asleep with his fists clenched so tight his hands hurt then next morning.

Gilbert inhaled sharply and swallowed the cancerous words. He only shrugged in return.

Broad shoulders drooped and Germany shook his head in disbelief. Then he turned, straightened his back, about to speak when their door finally opened. Interior conversation flowed out into the hall. Low rumbles of political chuckling. Handshakes. The hearty grip of a shoulder.

Germany rose, adjusted his tie and went to stand beside his Under-Secretary of State. Gilbert did the same, noting a rare smile from Kohl.

A few final pleasantries were exchanged and then the East German delegation bid farewell to the West German delegation. Cars were waiting out front. Gilbert followed his party out, trying to keep to the back of the crowd as best he could, hands slunk deep in the pockets of his ill-fitting suit.

The crowd began to break up as West German members found their respective cars and lower level East German secretaries and aides bustled back inside to continue their work. And Gilbert found himself quite alone on a step, watching his brother hold a door open for Under-Secretary Bahr.

Germany turned his head a moment, catching Gilbert's eye. Brother and brother each held a look that contained a million thoughts, yet neither dared speak.

Gilbert toed a patch of ice on the ground, sniffling in the chill winter air. Germany helped Under-Secretary Bahr into his waiting car. What had passed between them was broken. It belonged to the past. This was how it was.

Gilbert made his way up to his "office" once the delegation left. Russia was still seated in the same chair as that morning, though he had traded the newspaper for a book. He closed it on his lap and removed his glasses when Gilbert entered. He refrained from asking how it went. Gilbert would not say. The look on his face told Russia enough.

Gilbert changed out of his suit back into his street clothes and went home. He stopped by the corner store and picked up a bottle of vodka. Russia had asked him out for drinks but Gilbert declined. A part of him now wished he hadn't, though all he really wanted to do was sleep.

As he approached his building, he saw his own little grey man across the street, pretending to be interested in a bus schedule.

Gilbert stopped and watched. Watching the man watching him. Then he doffed his hat and sunk into a theatrical bow.

He rode the lift up to his flat, turning his brother's words over in his head.

What had his brother wanted? What had he been expecting? Some kind of nice, neat ending like in a fairytale? One where the good guys win? But who was good and who was bad?

Naïve.

His brother. Such a young, naïve nation. Eager to please. Eager to reconcile. Eager to return to some sense of order he had drawn up in his head when he was still young. A permanence, in which he and his brother were not separated by shifting ideals and barriers made by man. In which they lived in the same house, separated only by a door. In which the pacing of frightened bare feet could still be heard before they crossed the threshold to his older brother's room and settled down under the blankets, a pale arm wrapping around him while warm breath whispered him back to sleep with stories of heroics and conquests. So long ago. Long, long before they ripped the world apart. Long before history took its revenge and ripped them apart as retribution. The world had been nothing more than knights and fairytales. But the world wasn't like that anymore. Hell, it never really had been.

Gilbert brought the vodka to his lips and wondered. If Germany was naïve, what did that make him?

* * *

 **A/N – History/Head-cannon Notes**

Basic Treaty – signed December 21, 1972 in East Berlin. Essentially, the Federal Republic of Germany and the German Democratic Republic agreed to recognize each other as sovereign states for the first time, thus renouncing West Germany's Hallstein Doctrine in favor of Ospolitik. Up until this point, both governments of East and West Germany claimed to represent the entire German nation, with West Germany refusing to recognize the GDR as a sovereign nation.

Egon Bahr and Micheal Kohl – Undersecretaries of State for West and East Germany, respectively, who signed the treaty

Bonn – de facto capital of West Germany (I'm not sure if the anecdote Ludwig tells Gilbert, aout Adenauer not wanting to move from his home is true or not, but I found it while researching, so I thought I'd include it ;) ).

Little grey men – East German Stasi (state security) officers wore grey uniforms, in contrast to the dark blue worn by the Volkspolizei

The Ministry – Ministerium für Staatssicherheit – Stasi headquarters (yes, I made Gilbert a member of the Stasi. In my head, it's the only way I can see him fitting into the East's government.)

 _Vostok_ – phonetic spelling of the Russian word for "East"


End file.
